


you're the broken glass in the morning light

by Tilion



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hair Dyeing, I know I tagged it as frerard but to be completely honest that's just for the hits, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Pre-SING (Music Video), Short & Sweet, Swearing, Teasing, The Fabulous Killjoys (Danger Days) Are Not MCR, funpoison, haha parties I made a pun!!, how?? to tag??, however they Are Not, kobra and jet are mentioned, oh yeah also there's some touching but all parties are clothed and consenting, you can imagine them as looking like mcr if you like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tilion/pseuds/Tilion
Summary: Party laughs, cards his long artist's fingers through his hair. "Wanna do each other?"Ghoul's brows shoot up."Ah, stop it, ya know what I meant."***Or, Party and Ghoul dye each other's hair.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Fun Ghoul & Party Poison (Danger Days), Fun Ghoul/Party Poison (Danger Days)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 52





	you're the broken glass in the morning light

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Save Yourself, I'll Hold Them Back" (I was gonna call it "heart attack in black hair dye" but it didn't quite have the same ring to it).
> 
> So, here is my very first attempt at a Killjoys fic, enjoy!

It's morning in the Zones. Despite his name, Ghoul likes the morning more than the night—the winter desert can be cruel in the darkness, its air cold and cloying, and the blazing sun is a constant danger at all other times. 

But there is a time, however short, before the sun spills from the horizon, before the stars completely fade. When the light hovers somewhere between beautiful and nowhere.

Fun Ghoul leans over the filthy diner sink and frowns. Faint sunlight glints in the mirror from the broken window behind him, and he tugs at his greasy hair, twisted through with sand and grit.

"Hey, Ghoulie, your roots're showin'."

He jumps, spins around. Party Poison leans outside the bathroom door he'd scribbled with drawings years ago, hands hooked in his pockets. "Shit, Pois," he swears, "don't do that."

"Sorry, sugar." He shakes his head, his hair a spill of faded blood over the shoulders of his iconic jacket. "Figured you'd seen me in th' mirror."

"Fuck you," he says, halfheartedly.

"Aww, you wish, sunshine." The edge of a grin Party gives him is—well. A scant few months ago, he would've looked away, thanked the Witch he didn't blush easily. Now he let his eyes drift over Party, his tight jeans, the stick of sand against his neck. 

"Your hair's fadin', too," he points out, and what he really means is _Yeah, I do fuckin' wish, except even if Jet's off with the Girl, Kobra's still like ten feet away outside working on the bike ._ And Party, goddamn devil he is, just smirks.

"I'm gonna redo it. Me 'n Kobes managed to snatch some more dye from Tommy's last run."

He brightens, just a little, and straightens from his slouched position against the sink. "Did ya—"

"Yeah, Ghoulie, we got your black." Party laughs, cards his long artist's fingers through his hair. He shoots Ghoul a look from under his lashes, not the coy seduction of before, but something a little softer. Something they tend to reserve for three am drives on the Trans Am, for moments pressed between sheets with both their eyes open, for the murmur of _I love you_ between morning kisses. "Wanna do each other?"

Ghoul's brows shoot up.

"Ah, stop it, ya know what I meant." Party snickers, shoves him lightly and he trips, stumbles backwards into the sink and grabs onto Party for balance. They both end up falling, Ghoul with his back on the sand-scrubbed tile floor, Party sprawled over him with laughter caught in his eyes.

Ghoul huffs, blows a lock of faded hair from his eyes. "Fuck you," he repeats, but there's no malice behind it; the words are threaded with warmth, fondness, threaded like the lace of their fingers when they're alone.

"You deserved that, y'prick." Party heaves himself up and offers a hand; he takes it, pulls himself to his feet and rolls his eyes at Party's theatrical little bow.

"So," he says.

"So," Party echoes.

"Are we gonna dye our hair, or just sit here talkin' like a coupla assholes?"

"S'called multitasking."

He snorts despite himself, and accepts Party's offered hand again. They wander into the Diner's main room, which lies vacant, Kobra's helmet set carefully on a dusty table. He can hear him outside, the punk music he's blasting, the faint _clank_ of metal against metal.

"Kobes wanna do his hair, too?"

Party shrugs as he roots through a pile of supplies, tucked into a side booth. "Later," he says, and Ghoul understands. This—whatever _this_ means—is for the two of them, and the two of them alone. 

He loves Kobra, loves Jet, loves the Girl fiercely and achingly and with all his desert-hardened heart. But Party's managed to worm his way in there, somewhere deep and untouched. A different slot, a part of himself reserved for one person.

And there are times, like this, when he wants nothing more than to follow this man to wherever he chooses to go. Into the sunset, into death.

Party is . . . Party. People follow him, are drawn to him, a glittering magnet in the blank dust of the Zones—but he'd chosen Ghoul.

Out of everyone— _Ghoul_.

"Hurry your pretty little ass up," Party yells, and he grins, snaps from his reverie. Party's back in the bathroom already, two boxes of cheap hair dye in his hands. He trails after him and lets one hand slide along a booth table; sand flecked off onto his fingers. Absentmindedly, he rubs it off on his jacket sleeve.

"Hey." Party frowns, catches his fingers in his own yet again. "You'll fuck up your jacket."

"S'fucked up enough already, Pois." He snickers. "Partially by _you_ , ya animal."

Party narrows his eyes. "We don't talk about the Zone 3 incident."

" _You_ don't talk about it. Me 'n th' others make fun 'f you all the time for it."

"Ass."

"Bitch."

"You love me."

"Sure do." He reaches up to brush his knuckles against Party's cheek; he closes his eyes under the touch, and something inside Ghoul just _melts_. Fuck, the things this man can do to him with the simplest of actions. 

He snaps out of it and shakes out the little tub of black dye. "You do mine first," he says.

Party obliges, pulling one of his paintbrushes from somewhere in his pockets. He licks the tip and screws open the tub to scoop out a glob of dye, half-dried and about as old as the Witch herself.

"Gonna poison yourself lickin' that shit," says Ghoul, leaning against the sink.

Party shrugs. "Just livin' up to the name, sweetheart." He closes the gap between them. Thin, wiry fingers tug gently at Ghoul's hair; he shuts his eyes and basks in the tingly feeling that shoots up and down his spine. 

A sudden coldness curls against his skull. He yelps and curses; Party chuckles. "Sorry, Ghoulie," he whispers, too close to his neck. The words travel down to his core.

"Shut the fuck up," he mutters, closing his eyes again, "or 'm gonna jump on ya right here in this dirty-ass bathroom."

"Later, sugar," Party croons, and resumes painting with a steady hand, while Ghoul attempts to quell the heat in his veins.

Fuck Party.

 _Yeah_ , his brain adds, _fuck Party_.

They rinse off his hair with warm water from the creaky sink. Black stains litter Party's pale hands, between the fainter stretches of red from years worth of dyeing. Rubber gloves, after all, are surprisingly harder to acquire as some of the other shit they got. 

He flips his head back up, spattering Party with dark-tinted water. "Your turn," he says, with a grin.

His art skills are far from Party's, and the brush is soaked in black anyway, so he goes ahead and dumps half the red tub into his palm. Party tips his head down over the sink, a silent request.

He slathers the scarlet over Party's locks, over the spots faded almost to sunset colors. It's soft, despite the roughness of the desert, the harsh sunlight, constant bleaching. But that's Party, he thinks as his fingers linger at the nape of his partner's neck. 

Contradictory. Improbable, if not impossible. It was the way he'd always been, since they were two young Killjoys straight off Bat City, fueled with fresh anger and righteousness.

"You're sure takin' your time, Ghoulie," says Party, leaning up to smirk at him. 

Ghoul pushes his head back down and resumes. "Not my fault you're so distracting," he teases. 

Party struggles against his firm hand, struggles to look at him. "Maybe you need to get better at focusing," he says, with a roguish wink, although the effect is somewhat mitigated by the fact that his head is soaked in hair dye and pushing awkwardly at Ghoul's hand.

"Oh, yeah?" Ghoul releases him, and he twists around so they're facing each other, the spaces between them charged with energy. "Help me practice focusing, then."

He makes a faint noise of surprise as Party places a hand on his thigh, sending a ripple of heat up into his core. "Well?" Party purrs, with a raise of a single brow. "My hair's not gonna finish dyein' itself, sugar."

He falters, before growling slightly. "Guess I asked for it," he mutters, and continues slicking Party's hair in red, tugging a little harder than strictly necessary. 

Party's palm drags upward, and he hisses. "Fuck, Pois, 'm tryin t' focus."

"And you're doin' pretty well so far." Party twists to meet his eyes, even as his hand slides up to palm Ghoul through his jeans, and his eyes ask silently— _okay_? He has to bite his lip to keep down a moan as he nods, shakily. _Okay_. 

_Always_.

The hand falls away. His jeans are, embarrassingly, already a little uncomfortably tight, but he grits his teeth as he finishes off the last lock of bare hair. 

"There," he says, and leans in for a kiss, but Party holds up his other hand. 

"Still gotta wash it off," he says.

Ghoul narrows his eyes, but acquiesces. As he flicks on the sink and ducks Party's head beneath the faucet, two hands land on him this time, and slide up beneath his jacket. He's bent over Party, almost straddling him, and they're both a little flushed, Party grinning, his own face scrunched in concentration. 

Methodically, he scrubs out the last of the dye. Party shakes out his hair like a wet dog, sending droplets of water everywhere, and grabs Ghoul's jacket collar.

He's dipping Party in an instant, and their mouths crash together. Fire surges through his veins, spiderwebs outward from every place they're touching, and he practically rips off Party's jacket to reveal the side-cut black tank underneath. Party's hands fumble at _his_ jacket, at the buckle of his belt, and they're both slicked with sweat and red-and-black tinted water, like blood and ash. 

That thought should probably not be hot.

Ghoul grins, grins into Party's mouth as they stagger back into the Diner without breaking their kiss, and thinks how fucking gorgeous Pois looks like this. Flustered, but smugly satisfied, with soaking-wet hair dyed freshly bloodred and the shimmering faint morning light caught in his eyes. How he's oddly fragile like this, like a porcelain doll, but simultaneously strong, maneuvering Ghoul with practiced ease— _fuck_ he's so fucked, or maybe they both are. 

Mostly, though, he thinks vaguely that the bike better take a damn long while for Kobra to fix.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm such a prude I blushed writing this


End file.
